Stained Glass: An Alexi Sokolsky Supernatural Thriller (Alexi Sokolsky: Hound of Eden Book 2)

by James Osiris Baldwin

  I’d smelled a lot of awful things over the years. I’d smelled bodies when they dumped their bowels and bladder after death. I’d smelled the unnatural reek of DOGs and places of corruption. This wasn’t a DOG-stench: it was cat feces concentrated a hundred times more than whatever the human nose was made to stand. It was the Platonic Ideal of cat shit, the distillation of rotten venison, putrid and tarry, mixed with bile, musk, and ammonia.

  Retching, eyes streaming, I locked my jaws and sighted down again, this time on the huge face pressed against the hole in the door. The nose was flaring as Talya sniffed, and sniffed, and as I tried to shunt myself into the killing trance.

  “Hold off,” Angkor said breathlessly. He lay a hand on the pistol and pushed it down. “Look.”

  Talya moaned, a short, almost solemn sound, and pulled her muzzle back in a shower of shattered woodchips and paint. She began to paw at the threshold to the room, stropping her claws on it, but gave up after a few seconds with a snarl. The spotted gray flank swished by the hole in the door again, and I recupped the grip and re-aimed. But she passed by, chuffing with agitation.

  “Oh wowww. That’s a North American lion,” Angkor said. He had turned an interesting shade of bronze-green. His eyes were watering, his voice thick with mucus. “A real life Panthera atrox. There hasn’t been one of those for at least eleven thousand years. Holy shit. Isn’t that amazing?”

  “Sure, wonderful. But Super Govno isn’t going to hold her off forever,” I said. “He, she… IT can still hear us.”

  “Hey, don’t be rude. She’s a woman when she’s human, male when she’s not.” Angkor nearly collapsed to his knees beside me. Up close, he was pouring sweat. Sweet, floral sweat that chased the stench of what I assumed was prehistoric lion shit out of my nostrils. “My GOD, that is amazing.”

  “Cover ears.” I put the Glock down and pulled the Wardbreaker instead.

  “What?”

  I tucked my ear against my shoulder, pressed my hand to the other, and fired. The Wardbreaker was usually quiet – part of its enchantment made it nearly silent when activated with a suppressor – but I couldn’t activate it, and so the shot still rang out like a cannon, loud enough that my ears popped. Angkor winced, covering too late. Binah, terrified, shot out from her hiding place and began to flail uselessly at the walls and window in her efforts to find a way out.

  The lion outside bolted in alarm, squeezing herself back towards the front door as the bullet zinged. I let out a tense breath, and lowered the pistol.

  “Ow, shit...” Angkor let go of his ears, slumping into a wilted kneel on the floor. “You could have warned me.”

  “I did.” I turned to glower at him, still tense. Talya had retreated, but it wasn’t over. “You were busy admiring the wildlife.”

  “Okay, fine. You got me there.” Angkor rubbed his face. His eyelids were heavy, skin ashen and damp with sweat. “GOD, I feel awful. I was… uhh…”

  He was staring at me: First in consternation, and then, with recognition and what even might have been awe.

  “What?” My eyes snagged on twin crescent-shaped scars on his chest, cuts about an inch across just below the areola on both sides. They had thick keloids, as if someone had cut around his nipples or tried to take them off. Angkor didn’t say anything. Instead, he licked his lips, nose working like a dog’s.

  “What?” I was louder this time, more peevish.

  “I’m sure I’ve met you before.” Angkor slid in closer to me, far too close for comfort.

  I blinked twice, glanced to the door to see if we were still likely to be eaten within the next thirty seconds, and then turned back. I extended him a gloved hand. “Well, now that we’ve established that our relationship is likely to be both brief and awkward before Talya eats us, perhaps we should start with our names. My name is Alexi. I believe you are Angkor.”

  Angkor was in no way put off. He grasped my hand in his and shook, his grip surprisingly firm and steady. I held his hand a moment. He was not shaking. He had the air of someone who was used to working under stress.

  “Seung Min-Joon,” he replied, eyes alight with inner fire. “But yes, call me Angkor. And no, it’s not a Korean name.”

  “The more you know.” I let go, and used the wall to pull myself to my feet, wincing. My head spun, and for several long moments, every sound was muffled by the cotton-thick pounding of my heart in my ears. Blood had seeped to the surface of my dressings. Woozily, I staggered across to one of the beds and chirruped, seeing if I could coax my terrified familiar from her hiding place.

  “You’re really badly hurt, Alexi. Can you lie down for a minute?” I heard him get up behind me. Weak as he was, he was still moving easier than me.

  “Why?” Lying down was the last thing on my mind. All I had to do was get Binah, but I had to crawl onto the mattress to do that. Get the cat. As soon as I tried to look down between bed and wall, my vision and temples throbbed alarmingly.

  “Trust me, okay? I’m a doctor.”

  I turned on hands and knees, glowering at him. “I have to get my cat.”

  “Look. You need to lie down.” he said. The affable smile had left his face, and he did indeed look like a doctor: the kind of cynical, care-worn kind you found lurking in the ER. “Your blood volume is way under, you’re in full ketosis, your micro-nutrient profile has gone to shit, and if I don’t help you now, your blood pressure is so low that you’re going to faint the next time your head is higher than your knees.”

  “How ridiculous. I just need my cat.” I knelt up, and then immediately fell back down.

  At first, I thought I’d blinked and woken up somewhere else. I was flat on my back, stretched out on top of the covers. Binah was licking my face with a sandpaper tongue. My shirt was open, and Angkor was pressing around the now-visible sigil figure on my chest. My body felt as light as air, cavernous and free. I could draw deep breaths, but my hands, nose and feet tingled with pins and needles.

  “You know, I don’t recall much about that one time I’m pretty sure we met,” he said, with a sigh. “But I do remember that the other you was way better at taking orders.”

  “What did you do to me?” I made a valiant attempt to speak, but the words came out as a slurred word salad.

  Angkor made a sympathetic sound, apparently understanding anyway. “Don’t worry about it. Who did this to you?”

  My brain had to whir around for a while before I could reply. “Sergei. Old upir’.”

  “A Feeder,” Angkor murmured. “Of course. Look, wait here and don’t move. I need to go and see if our kitty-cat has calmed down.”

  Wait here? A fresh wave of fear stabbed through me. I was partly undressed and prone, and the lion was out there somewhere. I struggled to rise as Angkor left the bedside, flailing out to the side for my gun. Neither action was particularly successful. I knocked the pistol to the floor and ended up leaning on my face, tangled in my open shirt. Straining with effort, I could only watch as Angkor let himself out into the hall. Binah resumed her impromptu bath, grooming the frizz of stubble beside my ear.

  For several breathless, spinning minutes, there was no sound outside. Then Angkor returned. He saw me trying to reclaim my dignity and scowled. “Seriously. Stay down, or you’re going to pass out again.”

  “I don’t like to be undressed.” As he closed in on me, I fought his hands out of principle. Angkor efficiently pushed me down, and to my confusion and consternation, spooned honey into my mouth before I could do anything about it. The sweetness burned my tongue and I coughed, swallowing reflexively.

  “Just eat the damn honey,” Angkor said. “Life is way too short for bad patients, okay? I’m going to heal you, and you’re going to let me.”

  He put one hand on my head and held the other out behind him to the door, and for a moment, nothing happened. And then I felt an intangible wave of energy pass through my body. The honey abruptly dissolved into a thin liquid that ran down my throat and into my gut, burning with the warm fire of
liquor. The stomach parasite stirred warningly, and I winced.

  But I was healing. It wasn’t the horrific, invasive, cell-crawling healing that I’d gotten from Sergei’s blood: The lacerations from the glass almost seemed to sigh as they pushed out pus and other refuse, then perfectly clear plasma as they knitted and repaired. My hands tingled as the cut in my palm half-sealed to something manageable. The energy lingered in the nerves of that hand, which twitched and danced on the bed as Angkor, frowning with concentration, somehow repaired the damage the glass had done. It didn’t feel bad. It was the opposite of bad. It made my breath hitch and my skin stir. My gloves were still on, but no one had ever touched my hands like that.

  “Stop,” I said. My throat was clotting with nebulous fear, and as my anxiety peaked, I felt the healing accelerate. As the cut sealed, a silver ripple of… pleasure?… passed up my arm, through my chest, and down. Parts I preferred not to think about stiffened under the covers, which hurt. The pain startled and refocused me.

  “I’m nearly done. Nerve damage.” Angkor’s delicate face was pouring with sweat as the focus of his magic shifted from my hand to my thigh.

  The mingled pleasure and discomfort did not abate. I tried not to look at him, my face burning hot. The taste of honey and Angkor’s clear floral scent cut through the lingering lion musk and chased it from the room. He really smelled like Zarya. Like a Gift Horse.

  “Nearly done,” he murmured. “Hang in there.”

  The thigh puncture didn’t close, but the cut was now shallow – perhaps half an inch deep. The smaller ones had disappeared without a trace, and when I lifted my arms and looked over them, they were free of scars. Angkor sat back, and a huge, lazy smile of satisfaction spread over his mouth. His pupils were huge, dilated like a junkie’s.

  “Have a look at your hand,” he said. His voice was thick, a rich golden brown that thrummed in my ears and did nothing to ease my discomfort.

  Glowering, I slowly eased upright and removed my damaged, dirty glove. It revealed soft white skin, as pale as magnolias and nearly lineless. The hand that had been pinned with the shard was now seamlessly repaired, and to my surprise, no longer covered in blood. I flexed my fingers experimentally. There was a deep twinge in my palm, but I could form a fist and bend my fingers back and not scream.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Not my best work, but I was fighting that HookWyrm the entire time. That, and I literally feel like something a dog threw up on the sidewalk.”

  “You smell quite a bit nicer than that.” I only realized what I’d said after I said it. “I mean… you smell like a mage. Magic. Thank you.”

  His expression curled into slyness with incredible mobility. He pinched his tongue between his teeth as he smiled, a weirdly sensual gesture I’d never seen a person make before.

  I cleared my throat, glancing down. He was still mostly undressed, and averting my eyes from his face didn’t help. “Where is Talya?”

  “She’s busy eating one of the dead guys outside.” Angkor shrugged and reached for the jar of honey. “She’ll be fine once she’s had enough calories. We’ll know she’s shifted back when we hear hysterical screaming.”

  While Angkor spooned honey out of the jar and ate it like yogurt, I picked myself up off the bed. My muscles were stiff with fatigue, but it was not the screaming hot pain of deep wounds and burgeoning infection. The deepest punctures still hurt, and they still felt like lacerations, but they were no longer three inches deep. Manageable. I pulled my ruined glove back on and offered Angkor a hand.

  “Thanks.” He got to his feet, the teaspoon still in his mouth. He’d eaten about half the jar, but his dark skin was still greenish with exertion and he swayed to balance. His face and hair were damp with sweet floral sweat that clung like perfume to his body. It was mouthwatering and infuriating at the same time.

  “You shouldn’t have exerted yourself,” I said. “You’re not going to be good for anything now.”

  “I just need something to eat,” he said. “No chance of that for a long time, though.”

  “We have food,” I replied. “Can you take your own weight? I need both hands to properly use a pistol.”

  He replied by gently freeing himself from my support. His expression was one of focused will. Sick as he was, he had the air of someone used to pushing his body to limit. “Not the kind of food I can eat. I’m a Hound. I hunt Gift Horses.”

  I felt the parasite throb with a dull echo as my mind instinctively tried to synapse with Kutkha and failed. I caught up the Wardbreaker, fighting the urge to level it at Angkor’s face. “You… hunt them? For food?”

  “Hunt. Capital H. I’m a keeper of the Pact.” He turned to me, and quirked his lips with a lazy feline smile. “Though if you let me suck you off, that would do.”

  My mouth opened, then closed. My teeth clacked together. “Wh-?”

  “You possess the raw essence of life.” He gestured with his head towards my crotch. “You know, that whole Crowley ‘fire within the reed’ thing? HuMan pleasure is hard tack rations for a Hound, but it does the job.”

  I’d never wanted to backpeddle away in mortified horror and lunge forward to snap someone’s neck at the same time. Immovable object and irresistible force combined to leave me burning scarlet, furious and confused. After a moment of fraught, painful tension, I took a single step away from him. “Uhh… no. Thank you.”

  “Okay, that’s fine. I just noticed that you had a bit of a ‘reaction’ before, and I was like ‘Hi there! Maybe he’d be interested.’” He held up his hands in surrender, and I had the momentary image of pinning his slender wrists back against the wall and digging my fingers in until he gasped in pain and threw his head back, bearing the long line of his throat.

  As my pulse throbbed and my head pounded and my body did things I wasn’t sure I wanted it to do for a man, ever, I did the only sane thing. I bought my gun up and retreated as fast as I could, jaws clenched, breath coming hard and fast through flared nostrils.

  “Hey, Alexi, we can’t do this.” Angkor held up his hands “Do you want DOGs? Because this is how we get DOGs.”

  “The fuck is wrong with you?” This wasn’t the kind of thinking and feeling a professional wetworker could never allow to clutter his mind.

  “Seriously. Don’t ever point a gun at a Hound.” The sensual promise drained from his face, leaving it sharp and hard and focused. “When I look down the Black, the NO looks back. It sends demons through the gun, Alexi. Big bad ones. You should know that for a fact.”

  It took me a moment to digest his words over the humiliating, painful rush of blood to my various organs, and the furious sense of threat that overwhelmed sense, overwhelmed rational thought.

  Sense and reason. I was a mage, even if I was a crippled one. My Will asserted itself, and I lowered the muzzle of the pistol, grinding my teeth until they creaked. “I know what DOGs are, you patronizing... you..."

  The memory of Zane's earnest confession stopped me from using the slur, and it died on my lips. In years past, I probably wouldn’t have thought twice about saying something like that, but Angkor and Zane had both saved my life. I could learn.

  Angkor sighed, though from relief or exasperation, it was hard to say. I knew one thing: he wasn’t scared of me, except perhaps for the awareness that he was in danger of being shot or DOG-bit. You could pretend calm in a situation, but there were just some things you couldn’t fake. His pupils were normal. He wasn’t shaking. His hands were steady, and no sweat beaded on his upper lip. I might as well have been pointing a remote control at him.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I’ve had a rough few weeks. My mouth is working faster than my brain.” He lowered his hands, voice thick with contrition. “And I’m not used to Hounds being so…euun… chaste?”

  “If they’re not chaste, then I’m not a Hound.” My eyes narrowed.

  “Well… technically…” Angkor shuffled in place, biting his lip for a moment. “If you’ve ever eaten the flesh of a Gift Horse, you
’re a Hound. It marks you for life. You maybe didn’t know it at the time, but when you ate that heart or drank that blood, your whole body dumped all of its old cells and regrew them on a slightly different genetic code. An improved code, in case you’re worried.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “There are all these ancient viruses written into our DNA. Gift Horse blood kind of… cleans them up a bit.” Angkor shifted his hips in a way that drew my eye and sent a fresh injection of imagery and confusion straight to the brainstem. “So, when I was healing you, I could see all the signatures of Horseflesh. I wasn’t like, trying to pry or anything. I had to make sure everything I did was in line with your body’s code, or ‘fast healing’ turns into ‘catastrophic cell die-off’ pretty quickly.”

  “Noted.” Rescuing this man from The Deacon and his merry band of eyeless freaks was beginning to look like yet another poor decision on my part, but I couldn’t deny that he’d hooked me with something I’d been craving for weeks, maybe months. Knowledge. Deep, powerful knowledge of a subject that I’d only begun to skim.

  I was reaching for the bedroom doorknob when a high-pitched female shriek of horror ripped through the air. I winced as dark blue and white flashed behind my eyes.

  “Ah, there we go.” Angkor sighed, and held the pistol cupped as he drew up beside me and peered around the edge of the door. “The Lion King has left the building. And now the crying starts.”

  Chapter 34

  We sidled out into the hall like a fire team, careful to look up as well as around on our way out. Talya’s sobbing racked the tattoo parlor, louder and louder as we reached the entry to the tiled room. She was nude, slumped on her knees, alternately flapping her hands and trying to bury her face in them. The floor looked like someone had been fingerpainting in blood. Her hands were covered in it, and she’d managed to smear it over her belly, thighs and hair in her desperation to get clean.